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. Not previously published.

These letters were edited with the assistance of Carol Bolton, Tim Fulford and Ian Packer

For permission to publish the text of MSS in their possession, the editor wishes to thank the Beinecke Rare
Books and Manuscript Library, Yale University; Berg Collection of English and American Literature, The New
York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations; the Bodleian Library Oxford University; the
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Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge; Haverford College, Connecticut; the Historical Society of Pennsylvania; the
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Collections); the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York; the Public Record Offices of Bedford, Suffolk (Bury
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The Ring.Published under the signature ‘Walter’
(probably a version of ‘Wat Tyler’, a favourite
pseudonym of Southey’s) in the Morning
Post, 22 February 1798. The poem was later
renamed ‘King Charlemain’.

______

PetrarchFrancesco
Petrarca (1304–1374). heard the story at
Aix.The German
city of Aix-la-Chapelle, or Aachen, was the birthplace
of Charlemagne (742–814; King of the Franks 768–814),
founder of the Holy Roman Empire. I found it in
Pasquiers Recherches de la France.Etienne Pasquier (1529–1615), Les
Recherches de la France, 3 vols (Paris,
1611), II, p. 272; Common-Place Book, ed.
John Wood Warter, 4 series (London, 1849–1850), IV, p.
71.

______

It was strange that he loved her, for
youth was gone by And the bloom of her beauty was fled; Twas the glance of the harlot that gleamd
in her eye, And all but the monarch disgusted
descry The art that had tinged her cheek
red. Yet he thought with Agatha none might
compare, That Kings might be proud of her
chain, The court seemd a desert if she were not
there,None else he thought
<She only was> lovely, she only was fair, Such dotage possessd Charlemagne. The soldier, the statesman, the courtier,
the maid Alike this their rival detest, And the good old Archbishop who ceasd to
upbraid Shook his grey head in sorrow, &
silently prayd To sing her the requiem of rest. A joy ill dissembled soon gladdens them
all, For Agatha sickens & dies, And now they are ready with bier &
with pall, The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high
hall, And the bell it tells long thro the
skies. They came, but he sent them in anger
away, For she should not be buried, he
said, And, despite of all counsel, for many a
day Arrayd in her costly apparel she lay And he would go sit by the dead. The cares of the kingdom demand him in
vain, The army in vain ask their Lord. The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of
Spain Now revenge the realms of the proud
Charlemagne, And still he unsheathes not the
sword. The soldiers they clamour, the priests
bend in prayer In the quiet retreats of the cell; The Physicians to counsel together
repair. They pause & they powder, at last
they declare That his senses are bound by a spell. With relics protected & confident
grown And telling devoutly his beads, The Archbishop prepares him, & when
it was known That the King for awhile left the body
alone To search for the spell he proceeds. Now careful he searches with tremulous
haste For the spell that bewitches the
King, And under the tongue for security
placed, Its margin with mystical characters
faced, At length he discovers a ring. On his finger he slipt it & hastened
away, The monarch reentered the room, The enchantment was ended, & suddenly
gay He bade the attendants no longer
delay But bear her with speed to the tomb. Now merriment, joyaunce & feasting
again Enlivend the palace of Aix, And now by his heralds did King
Charlemagne, Invite to his palace the courtier
train To hold a high festival day. And anxiously now for the festival
day The highly born maidens prepare; And now, all apparelled in costly
array Exulting they come to the palace of
Aix, Young & aged, the brave & the
fair. Oh happy the damsel who mid her
compeers For a moment engaged the King’s eye! Now glowing with hopes, & now feverd
with fevers Each maid or triumphant or jealous
appears As noticed by him or past by. And now as the evening approachd, to the
ball In anxious suspense they advance; Each hoped the Kings choice on her
beauties might fall When lo, to the utter confusion of
all, He askd the Archbishop to dance. The damsels they laugh & the barons
they stare Twas mirth & astonishment all. And the Archbishop started & mutterd
a prayer, And wrath at receiving such mockery
there Withdrew him in haste from the hall. The moon dimpled over the water with
light As he wandered along the lake side, When lo! where beside him the King met
his sight O turn thee Archbishop – my joy &
delight! Oh turn thee my charmer! he cried. Oh come where the feast & the dance
& the song Invite thee to mirth & to love. Or – at this happy moment away from the
throng To the shade of yon wood let us haste
along, The moon never pierces that grove. Amazement & anger the prelate
possest With terror his accents he heard; Then Charlemagne warmly & eagerly
prest The Archbishops old withered hand to his
breast, And kissd his old grey grizzle beard Let us well then these fortunate moments
employ Cried the Monarch with passionate tone
– Come away then dear charmer – my angel –
my joy – Nay – struggle not now – tis in vain to
be coy – And remember that we are alone. Blessed Mary protect me! the Archbishop
cried What madness is come to the King! In vain to escape from the monarch he
tried When luckily he on his finger espied The glitter of Agathas ring. Overjoyed the old Prelate rememberd the
spell And far in the lake flung the ring, The water closed round it, &
wonderous to tell Released from the cursed enchantments of
hell His reason returned to the King. But he built him a palace there close by
the bay, And there did he stablish his reign, And the traveller who will may behold at
this day A monument now in the ruins at Aix, Of the spell that possessd
Charlemagne.

_________________

I do not think the Diablerie TudesqueAs defined in Thomas
James Mathias (1753/4–1835; DNB),
The Pursuits of Literature. A Satirical Poem
in Four Dialogues. With Notes, 8th edn
(London, 1798), pp. 123–124 n. (y). palling, but
certainly it is better if we can to do without it. you shall
have my Maniac storyProbably ‘Jaspar’; see Robert Southey to Charles Watkin
Williams Wynn [21 April 1798], Letter 303. as
soon as it is written.